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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804514">a separate moral universe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock'>StripySock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Episode specific characterisation, Episode: s02e20 What Is and What Should Never Be, Fingerfucking, Infidelity, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:20:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What Is And What Should Never Be AU. Dean is Sam’s no good big brother who flunked out of school, steals their mom’s silver to pay off his gambling debts, and is drunk more often than not. And he fucks Sam like no one else ever does.</p><p>Motels inhabit a separate moral universe is what that world's Stoppard might've said, but didn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, background Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a separate moral universe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The characterisation in this is episode specific to the Sam and Dean we saw in What Is And What Should Never Be, the djinn episode with Sam the law student and Dean the feckless brother who'd steal his prom date.</p><p>Fill for this prompt during the excellent SPN Masquerade https://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/10986.html?thread=4194282#t4194282</p><p>Title nicked off Tom Stoppard - "Hotel rooms inhabit a separate moral universe."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Nice," Sam says, looking around Wichita's cheapest, sleaziest motel. The beds look like they've about five minutes away from their inevitable home in the dumpster, and the lights are dim enough that he can barely see Dean's face. He hasn't been in a room like this since the last time. "How many spoons did this cost from the family silver?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Half a knife," Dean says, not an ounce of shame, takes off his jacket and throws it on a chair. There’s a glint of something in his hand, little flicker of it as he tucks whatever it is into his pocket. Sam thinks it might be a condom, feels a hot lurch in his gut. "Silver loses value in the second hand market."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"From being fenced you mean," Sam replies. Four years of law school and he's got an awful lot more words to describe what his brother does on occasion. Petty theft. Pilfering. Fucking your family over for easy cash. He's said it about a thousand times and Dean's ignored him a thousand times, a missing space where his morals should be, little pocket in his chest probably filled with beer instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Unnecessary Sammy," Dean says conversationally. "You gonna get on the bed or not?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam can feel the flush crawl up, a slow rise from his chest, hot prickle of it and he wants to tell Dean to fuck off, he really does. Wants to be anywhere but here. Right now Jess is at her dress fitting, she'd sent a picture, grainy and small of her hand blocking the dress and three hearts underneath. He can imagine it, how beautiful she's going to look. She's the only thing he's ever wanted, other than everything else, and now he has her, completely and entirely. He should be with her, but he's here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mom wants you to be best man," Sam says, and his fingers are already at his neck, loosening his tie. "Thinks it'll make a difference. Says she'll die happy if she can see us being brothers again." The tie's off, and the first three buttons are undone, and Dean's just watching him from across the room, eyes strange and dark in this light, unblinking. There's no embarrassment, Sam hates that there isn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Brothers," Dean says, and there's no emphasis in his voice. "I guess we are huh Sam. Doesn't feel like it though does it. When's the last time you said hi?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They've never felt like anything other than brothers to Sam. Family's the place where when you knock, they have to let you in, and that's what Dean is to Sam, someone he can't say no to. If he wasn't his brother, Sam would have cut him off long ago. Around the time Dean tongue-fucked Sam's prom date's pussy, while Sam watched and jerked off, so twisted up and ashamed, he thought he'd never live through it, never be the same person again or be able to make himself look at his reflection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If anyone else had done that to him, stabbed him in the back and fucked the wound, Sam would've put him in the ground. But even if he had, Dean would just claw his way to the surface, and smile, the same way he always did, one sided, like he thought that Sam secretly wanted to laugh with him and it was just Sam being a wuss that meant he didn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Sam says instead, watches the way that Dean moves closer. He can see them both in the mirror even in the gloomy shadows cast by a too dim bulb. Dean's shoulders eclipse his at this angle, he moves like a threat towards Sam, and if Sam gives an inch, he'll take a mile. Sam knows this, steps right on forward until they're close enough to touch almost, inch between them, and Dean's eyes are clear and green, liar's eyes. "I call to say hi, you don't pick up," Sam says, and it's almost the truth. He's rung Dean's number twenty times, two rings apiece, clicks off rather than risk an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got a new songbook?" Dean asks. "Tired of hearing the same old tunes Sam. Like what is it this time? Guilt? You want me to hate you Sam, I'm never going to hate you, and you can do your best impression, but you're never gonna hate me either."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's pretty certain, even if he can't be absolutely sure, that Dean talking like this is his own twisted way of trying to make Sam feel better, his own fucked up little pat on the head. Dean doesn't deal in absolutes, he lives in a grey world. He seems to believe Sam's different, that Sam needs justification, and in his own idiosyncratic way Dean provides to fit the need. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not unlike what he's always done, fucked Sam's world over, time and again in the worst of ways, under the impression that what he's doing is somehow the right thing to do. That could be giving him too much credit though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut up," Sam says instead, tired retort of the little brother who can't find anything else to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean's fingers brush his jaw, against his neck, slip down to trace Sam's pec like he's feeling out the way Sam's changed. Sam can feel the roughness of Dean’s hand through the thinness of his shirt. Wonders if Dean can feel how fast his heart is beating under his skin. "Yeah, yeah," Dean says, the put upon words of an older brother who has heard it all before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's dick is hard, and Dean's mouth is pressing into his throat, not biting, just pressing his teeth into the skin, every touch a reminder that none of this can show. He's careful like this, the only thing he's ever been careful with Sam over. Drags his soft mouth over the bump of Sam's adam's apple, to the hollow where his neck meets his chest, swipes his tongue over the dent, and Sam's shivering. Dean doesn't mention it, scrapes his teeth along Sam's shoulder bone, turns out his arm like he wants to follow the line to its natural end. His skin's bristly, carefully maintained stubble scraping Sam's skin. Sam shaved this morning, always does, razor as close to the skin as he can get it, just the way Dean showed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's still shuddering as he touches Dean, scrapes his fingers across the cheap cotton of his t-shirt, emblazoned with some metal band Sam's never cared to know. It's familiar, every bit of this, he could be a thousand miles away from here, or back in his bedroom four years ago, watching Dean lock the door. Dean's burning hot underneath, warms Sam just by default, sighs against the dip of his elbow before he comes back to Sam's mouth and kisses him. If Sam ever thought about this, outside of the dirty rooms and the sordid flashback memories when he's five vodkas into nights out with Jess, it's this that gets him every time. The fact that Dean kisses him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like it should be off limits, like a line that shouldn't be crossed. Dean can fuck him against the wall, until Sam’s unseeing, blind, lost in his head so far that it takes him days to climb out, but he shouldn't be able to do this. Should, could, would mean nothing to Dean though, he tramples that boundary as heedlessly as he does everything else. Bites at Sam's mouth, until he feels sore and strange, bruised to the touch, a day old apple, before he sucks Sam in, opens against his mouth and draws Sam in, until it's a kiss, not just Dean fucking his mouth like he does everything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam can hear the sounds they make, the dampness of it, feels the way Dean's mouth has left cold-warm spots down his arm, and the way his jeans almost hurt now. He's about to step back, get the zipper undone, but Dean's there first, all of Sam's firsts and Sam hates him for that alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How you want it?" Dean says, like there's a bouquet of options on the table. Sam wouldn't know. He's fucked two people in his life and had it mean anything. Was a virgin all the way through high school because Dean couldn't leave well enough alone, charmed the panties off his dates and they didn't want Sam after. He remembers nights of desperate frustration, and Dean laughing into the darkness, on the porch with another girl Sam had thought might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. "They didn't deserve you," Dean always said, righteously angry when Sam raged helplessly at him. "Like, she gave it up so easy Sammy, you need a better girl than that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time they did this, Sam fucked Dean over a desk, Dean's face twisted away, fingers buried in his mouth like he didn't want to risk saying anything, biting down so hard there were angry marks left on the hand he clapped Sam on the back with when he left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your girl Jess touch you like this?" Dean asks, as he gets Sam's jeans around his thighs, nudges a hand against the clothed mound of Sam's dick under his boxes and there's a ragged tear in his voice now, something clawing its way up and out of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't say her name," Sam says, the only thing he's asked for himself. Dean's fingers are gentle in his hair and around his dick, and his words are soft against Sam's ear. "Sammy," he says, and the name hurts. "I ain't the one betraying her." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam jolts at the words, can't help it, and the truth of it is like ice water in his gut. Dean's met Jess a handful of times, and it's one of the things that Sam loves about her, that she never fell for his charm even for a second. This one is all on Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're cute," she told Sam after meeting Dean for the first time, "but your brother is a sleazebag. Are you two close?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're not close, not the way that she means it. They don't grab beers, Dean doesn't fix Sam's car, they don't catch the game together and sit an easy unthought out five inches apart while they talk over their lives. This kind of close though, yeah, they are. The kind of close where Dean's fingers are pushing unhesitatingly through the slit in Sam's boxers and Sam's jerking mindlessly into his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't," Sam says. Don't say her name. Don't make this something that Sam has no choice but to walk away from. Don't ask him to choose, because he's not sure he can make the right call. Not with the way Dean touches him, like nothing else and no-one ever has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn't say it again. He doesn't have to. Sam's clawing off his jeans with his feet, stupid and helpless with them around his ankles, and Dean kneels for him then, unhooks them from around Sam’s feet, bites at his knee, his thigh, teeth still sheathed. There's a flush of red where he snaps, but it fades in seconds, and Sam's hips are twitching forward desperately, just waiting for Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have to wait long. Dean's faults are endless, they begin with the family silver and with Mom's voice tired on the other end of the line </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever since your father's been gone, it's like I can't get through to him</span>
  </em>
  <span> and end somewhere here, where he's getting ready to blow Sam, but he's rarely a tease. He's just a con man who doesn't have a con to run, a snake oil salesman cheated of an audience, having to make do just with Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn't waste time either, drags his mouth over the tip of Sam's dick, and sinks down like it's easy, callused hands gripping Sam's hips hard enough to bruise, dragging him forward just a little bit until Sam's rocking in and out of Dean's mouth, catching the edge of his tongue,  wet from Dean's spit, and the glide no easier for it. Dean's mouth almost too tight around him, and Sam's abruptly desperate, sick of the teasing, wants to fuck Dean's face properly, but he can't get the angle for it, not with the way Dean holds him back, and the shallow thrusts he allows Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds his fingers grasping at Dean's hair, not enough of it to really grab, the strands sliding through his fingers, and Dean sounds obscene like this, so much better with all of his snide words choked out of him. He touches Dean's face instead, the curve of his skull, the ridge of his eyebrow and Dean makes an enquiring sound around his dick, rocks back on his heels as though to evaluate. Sam doesn't even realise he's closed his eyes until he has to open them. Dean's wiping his mouth on his bare arm, as unconsciously gross as ever, face tilted as he abruptly stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come here," Dean says, and kissing him shouldn't be even a little good. Dean's a messy blowjob giver, lends credence to his eternal claim that Sam's the only man he's ever done this with. Sam wants it to be true, doubts it because it's hard not to doubt Dean. It's not bad though, Dean's mouth is soft, brushes across Sam's for a second, tastes of nothing, vague sensation of dampness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Dean's pushing him onto the bed, moving him into position with a hard shove of his hands, and every bit of Sam wants to shove back, probably would, if Dean's next move wasn't to get back between his legs, shouldering them apart, hand tugging at Sam's thigh until his leg is bent and he's spread on the bed, pinned under Dean, dick temptingly near Dean's mouth, as Dean hooks an elbow over Sam's other leg and holds him down. He can hardly move like this, exposed under Dean's gaze, throws an arm over his face so he doesn't have to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have to see to feel the tickle of Dean's mouth, across the crease of his thigh, licking over his balls, patient and thorough, as he sucks them into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam can't help himself from pushing upwards, but the heavy weight of Dean across him holds him down, as Dean methodically gets started on the real business of the evening. He takes his time, drags his tongue up the seam, holds them in his mouth for a second, before he ever puts his mouth on Sam's dick again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even then, he doesn't take Sam all in. First nudges his face against the shaft, bites at Sam's thigh, teeth uncomfortably close, and his hands are steady, holding Sam down with one of them in the join of his thigh. His other hand tucks against his mouth, soaks his fingers with saliva at the same time as he finally sucks Sam off again. Sam can feel the space of Dean's mouth shared with his fingers, knows what comes next, even as he doesn't know whether to open wider or collapse in on himself, a solitary dying star.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is why he's here, the bit of him that isn't sex-gone thinks, this bit right here, where Dean's taken away every avenue, made every choice a decision between two wrongs. But he has his hand over his eyes, and Dean's dragging his wet fingers down his shaft, over the drawn tight flesh of Sam's balls, and the tautness of his thigh. Sam can mourn it all another time. Right now, Dean's fingers are pushing into him, spit-slick and solid, and it hurts, but not as much as the rest of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'll never tell Jess that what he learned of fucking started here, He loves her too much to destroy her like that. Maybe Dean never loved Sam enough, or loved him all the wrong ways. The half formed thought flees as Dean tucks a second finger in, pushes hard against Sam's instinctive resistance, sucks at the head of his cock, laps at the underside, and Sam is pinned between the two feelings. He can't open his eyes, but he can slip a hand down and pull Dean further onto his dick, and Dean goes willingly, one-two-three seconds of blind wet heat before he surges back and goes for it again, the pound of his fingers in Sam nearly an afterthought at this stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a tugging pain in Sam's thigh, his desk job doesn't demand he bend like this, and as though by instinct, Dean releases his grip, just a little, draws Sam's leg closer to him, and there's only darkness behind Sam's eyelids, and the bright burst of light when he closes his eyes a little more against this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is only the third time they've done this, the third time that Dean's fucked him like this, and nothing ever changes, only the colour of the walls. The shame's the same, the broken promises all alike. The way that Dean fucks into him with his fingers, like he wants to take him apart from the inside, that's the same as well, as is the way Sam breaks open for it. He's given up most of his pretences now, hand in Dean's hair, forcing him further onto his dick, pushing up at the same time, and he's seconds away from coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean must guess that, because he's fumbling in his jeans now, condom and lube tossed on the covers, lets go of Sam for an instant, while he tugs down his own jeans, a ludicrous stumbling figure in the semi-darkness. Sam's cold where Dean isn't touching him, the rush of air like an instant regret that gets crushed out of him when Dean flops back on top of him. Somewhere underneath it all, there's a voice saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it's going to get louder until soon it'll be the only thing Sam hears. Right now though, the heat of Dean's skin is holding it back, the way that this time his fingers are slick and easy in Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's biting now as Dean fucks him, because who the fuck cares about Dean's maybe girlfriend, nameless, faceless, probably doesn't even exist. Sam's the only one leaving unmarked from this encounter. He gets his teeth into Dean's neck, not enough to really hurt, not enough to make him bleed, like the flash of unchecked rage that runs through Sam wants. Just enough to sate that urge, and Dean's swearing, shocked, looking down on him like he doesn't know this Sam. It doesn't stop him though, he's trying to roll on a condom, fingers too wet, and Sam does it for him, a little complicit in his own fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to roll over. It'll make it easier in every way. Part of the punishment that comes with this though is watching with no excuses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn't protest, doesn't say anything, smart mouth quiet as he bites his no-good bottom lip, and pushes into Sam. The mark on his neck looks like it's already bruising. Sam closes his eyes again, leaves his arms outspread. The temptation is there to wrap them around Dean, and pull him in closer, but he ignores it. He can feel Dean's hand around his dick, long steady strokes and Sam's still on the edge, even the sharp burn of too much, too fast not enough to knock him off it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on, if you're going to fuck me, fuck me" he says, voice hoarse like he's been screaming, even if it's only somewhere inside his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop playing. Stop pretending this is something good, something slow.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Like it's anything other than what it is, vicious and fucked up, another game that Dean plays, that he's inveigled Sam into as an all too eager participant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean has the gall to look surprised at that, a little rush of something that looks like hurt flickers over his mouth, expressions that Sam can still read after months apart, the sharp downward twitch of Dean's mouth, the drawing together of his brows. Last time Sam saw him look like that, they were scattering Dad's ashes. It smooths out pretty fast though, and his hips pick up speed, leave behind slow and easy somewhere in the last county.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure Sam," he says, only a little breathless. "What Sammy wants he gets right?" All sorts of old bitterness in that, only inches away from the surface. That family therapist none of them had actually gone to would have had a field day with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam moves then, touches the leanness of Dean's side, the solidness of his chest, wraps a hand around his back as though to bring him down a little closer. Dean obliges, pushes an extra inch in, enough to kiss Sam, even as he fucks him, one hand wrapped loosely around Sam's cock as though this is too much multi-tasking all at once, and Sam takes up the slack, fingers touching Dean's at the same time. Sam's eyes are open now, but all he can see is Dean, and a little sliver of the darkness of the room past him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean's breath is hitching, staggered exhales, and Sam can feel a shake in his thrusts as though Dean's getting close, and he responds instinctively, curls up and around the sensation, jacks himself as fast as he can, as Dean fucks him near perfectly, sensation of too much and not enough at the same time, white sparks running down his back and over his arms. Sam's not sure if he's holding his breath, or if Dean is, but he can't hear breathing, or anything other than the touch of their skin, jerks his hips up pointlessly, fruitlessly, until he finally comes, loses track of everything, except Dean fucking him through his orgasm, a distant feeling on the edge of Sam's self.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean's on the edge as well, gathering up Sam's softening cock as though he doesn't know what to do with his hands otherwise, still pushing in, staring at Sam's face like they share the same disbelief that this is happening at all. Comes like that, eyes shut at the last second, mouth open and hurt. Lies there shaking afterwards, lined up with Sam, chest to chest, face turned away from him, sweat drying between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment there's quiet, closeness, before everything else crashes back in, and Sam can feel regret, disgust crawling all over him, the coldness of his skin where Dean isn't touching him, see the rest of the room outside of them. Dean heaves himself up just a little, slips out of Sam and the feeling is as unpleasant as the rest of it, lube slick and empty. Huffs a laugh into the darkness, and breaks the silence with the usual quip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know about being your best man Sammy, but I'm the best man you've ever had I'm guessing," and he suits word to deed, thumbs along the slack line of Sam's leg, and pushes back in him until Sam shudders and jerks, and bites his tongue so he doesn't beg Dean to do it again. "Only man even." There's an undertone that Sam can't read, not with Dean's face turned away, and he doesn't even bother to try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lie there for a few awkward minutes more until Sam thinks he'll go mad if it's for a second longer, wriggles his way from underneath Dean and straight for the shower with a pit stop by his bag to grab a change of underwear. He doesn't expect Dean'll be there when he gets back - Dean's already moving, gathering up his clothes. He's putting his jeans on bare and God, he's going to stink, but Sam won't be the one who'll have to smell it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he slips into the bathroom though, Dean shoulders him up against the sink, neon brightness of the light compared to the dark of the room leaving nowhere for them to hide. Sam's heart is going rabbit quick, and if Dean tries to kiss him Sam'll probably try to kill him. In the light, everything else comes back, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jess, Jess, Jess</span>
  </em>
  <span> the shame of his lack of self control, oh Christ how bad he wants to do it again, and all of it hurts in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn't try, looks at him curiously, as though Sam's as big a mystery to him as Dean is to Sam. "I'll be your best man. Better lock down those sweet wedding gifts though." He smiles as though to leave it at that, then leans in and says clear and matter of fact into Sam's ear, lips not even brushing his skin. "I always had you first."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments always appreciated and concrit welcome</p></blockquote></div></div>
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